


a lot to lose

by kickmyhead



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, do not worry the major character death only lasts for a short while, fabian: oh shit i think my friends r the most, important people in the world to me, the bad kids: NO DUH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 17:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30042249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickmyhead/pseuds/kickmyhead
Summary: Fabian Aramais Seacaster has a lot to lose.He thinks that when he falls.Fabian Aramais Seacaster has a frankly mind boggling amount of things to lose. But the most, out of all of that, out of all the worldly connections and possessions and things he calls his own, that he has to lose is his friends.
Relationships: The Bad Kids & Fabian Aramais Seacaster
Kudos: 23





	a lot to lose

**Author's Note:**

> set during some Random Battle between season 1 and season 2 heart emoji!!!!

Fabian Aramais Seacaster has a lot to lose.

He thinks that when he falls.

Fabian Aramais Seacaster has a frankly mind boggling amount of things to lose. But the most, out of all of that, out of all the worldly connections and possessions and things he calls his own, that he has to lose is his friends.

The sword twists in his chest, clean through, making him sport a rather ugly burgundy splotch where it hit. He sways, in the air, rapier scraping cement as his hands fall to his sides, and then he’s down. He’s breathing in shaky breaths, his vision’s swimming, and  _ yes _ , this is definitely what death saving throws feel like, so he takes stock.

Kristen is nowhere in his line of vision. Everyone’s still fighting. Nobody’s noticed.

Great stuff.

Fabian is hit with the overwhelming surge of will to not  _ die _ , because he doesn’t want to die, he really doesn’t. He’s never felt this strongly about it before, never been afraid of the pearly gates and the oblivion and the angel’s wings, or perhaps brimstone if he were ever to live up to his father, but now it’s abjectly terrifying. One part of his mind pipes up, raises a hand in the bleak conference room of his brain, and says  _ well, it’s a hero’s death, at any rate  _ and somehow it doesn’t comfort him. 

Dying in battle. When did that become so miserable? 

He’s only fucking sixteen. He’s only sixteen years old and he’s going to  _ die _ and there’ll be a memorial and the Bad Kids will turn from six to five and his mother will be alone and he is going to  _ die _ and he’s only sixteen.

He imagines what it'll be like afterwards, no sugarcoating, no preening, no ego-coaxing, because you only live once and in a few short moments he will be proof. He hopes they’ll be sad, and he thinks, not in vain, that they will be, that Kristen will curl her mouth in respectful solemnness and Gorgug won’t speak at all and Adaine will take shuddering breaths, the way she does in her panic attacks, and Fig will cry because she’s a crier, self admitted, group confirmed, and Riz will throw himself into casework, unbelieving, diligent, unsure how to process. It’s horrible, to hope that his friends will mourn, but he's allowed to be horrible just now, he thinks. 

He doesn’t want them to be sad forever, but a small part of him still hopes they won’t- you know,  _ entirely  _ move on, because that’s not- it’s selfish, yes, but he does- it’ll be-

His mind stumbles over itself, tries to justify the sick drop in his stomach when thinking of  _ another him _ , a new kid perhaps, a fresh faced dimpled fighter that’s charming and humble and genuine, that everyone will grow to love. And he’ll be forgotten, the sixteen year old immortalised by what, trips to the icecream shop? A dusty bike, commandeered by Fig, who will forget he was ever its “master”? He’s an- he’s an elf, goddamnit, he was supposed to- sixteen isn’t- he’s an  _ elf- _

He hopes, at least, his mother will cry at the memorial.

Fabian Aramais Seacaster was not a particularly remarkable adventurer, by any means, but he hopes he was a remarkable friend, that at least could be a comfort.

His vision is growing hazier, and blurred shapes rush and fight and at one point they notice, at one point they all notice, a green small shape bounding towards him in one wildly fast movement (slow down, take it  _ easy _ , his brain supplies deliriously) and shaking him by the shoulders, and why, why are they doing that, he is  _ relaxing _ , he is- well, he is- he can’t remember who he is as of current but he certainly is someone and he deserves a rest because he is tired, and he is not sure what all this “don’t fall asleep” tripe is for but it is certainly not for him because he deserves a rest. He blinks, once, twice, constantly getting woken up by this rather irritating little blurry ball (The Ball, his mind reverberates, in fond recognition, why, The Ball, what a funny nickname, he must show that to- to-) and groans weakly, and now there is  _ wet  _ on his face, well, why is there water on his face? Pinpricks of water, dampening his cheeks? Is it raining? His inner monologue is racing, as blurry as his vision, and he can’t quite place why he is feeling this profound sense of loss but it makes him quite horribly want to sob, and well, why should he sob, when he doesn’t even know who he is? He laughs, quiet, contemplating, and his eyes slip shut of their own accord, and Dear Lord who made his outfit because that huge scarlet splotch is not at all flattering with the grey, he must see someone about that, and-

He falls asleep at that thought, and sinks into the void.

\---

There are screams, faraway screams, more wet, more rain, more scarlet, all floating through the void and all so faintly interesting, yet not enough to care, not when he’s getting swallowed by the ink, by the warm dirt of somewhere, something, not when he is whoever he is and he is having a rest, and he can’t fight the loss anyways, because he gets the feeling that this is not his fight to win. His body, not connected, a hollow thing now, he thinks, distantly, is being shaken, is being enveloped in teary hugs, is having a reflection of a girl with red hair crossing his pupils, and isn’t that curious? Red hair, red cheeks, red hands, red hands that glow with a white, shifting, indeterminable light, that is suddenly so much more appealing than the void? He drifts, and the ink peels itself back, dissipates and evaporates under the oppressive, comforting, warm glare of magic, and he is floating back, to his name, and he not sure how he’s smiling but he is, and in a gasp his body is not hollow anymore.

\---

Everyone stares, and he notices, quite impressively, he thinks quietly, that they are all crying.

  
“I’m back, bitches.” He coughs.

“Fabian!” Riz screams, suddenly, eyes dilating into eclipses of yellow and black, out of pure joy, and he envelops him in his pointy malnourished elbows and his worn newsboy cap again, and Fabian feels the warmth of the magic in how happy he looks, in how glowing his smile is.

The rest of the group quickly follows suit, rushed, happy, elated, a haze of relief sending wonderful tears spurting down cheeks and mumbled, incomprehensible words out of mouths and the purple haze, the void, lifts, is replaced with the gleeful babbling crook of friendship. 

All in all, Fabian Aramais Seacaster has a lot to lose.

But somehow, he doesn’t mind if he does, if he never loses them.


End file.
